“Are you such a stranger to decency then, that you bargain with lives?”
“You have made me so.” His hold on her arm eased. Instead his hand moved as though to caress her, but she quickly drew away from him.
“You have already bargained one life away-to the devil. You have bargained your own”
“I am not yet so entirely forsaken, Meg. You might save me, if you choose”
“And why should I choose-to do you such a favor? You killed Douglas Kenney. You have killed other men who had nothing whatever to do with me”
“It could not be helped ..
“Could not be helped! It is murder!”
Sutcliffe’s smile was coldly tolerant.
“I have dueled, Meg. It is not a crime. Sir Eustace himself could not portray it so” He viewed her thoughtfully. “I wonder-if Douglas had killed me-would you have married him? Or would you have recoiled from a murderer?”
“That is a most exaggerated if, my lord. You arranged every detail, every circumstance, to make it an impossibility. Douglas had no chance with you.”
“Still-I think you may not understand yourself.” He considered her. She noticed, for the first time, that his eyes were an icy, soulless gray. And she noticed when that pale gaze sharpened with calculation. “Meg .. ” He moved as though to touch her once more, but restrained himself. “You will come to me,” he said confidently, and very softly, as though his own assurance now intrigued him. “I believe you will choose to do so. You will do so to spare him. To spare him from death, or from murder. It is all the same.”
“You speak nonsense”
“Do I? I promise you, that unless you act, there will be a meeting. And there is always a risk. Much as one hates to accept it, there are … accidents. You object so particularly to my own record. I wonder how you would justify his taking of a life-even mine. You are your father’s daughter, Meg. You and your family share the morality of your origins”-his voice condescended-“of the so quaint and comfortable county parish. Such virtue has kept you from me. But now, my dear, it will bring you to me.” He had the gall to touch her chin with one finger. “Yes, I think so. You see, Miss Meg, had you been my daughter-or my sisterI would have eliminated a Lord Sutcliffe long before now. It is to my benefit-at last-that your family is so very good.” His smile was satisfied.
“Your scheming trips you up, Lord Sutcliffe. It is a wonder you need converse with me at all-you converse so admirably with yourself.”
“That kind of conversation is not what I have in mind for you, Meg.” He looked at her frankly. “You shall learn to love me”
His look made her think of Cabot’s kiss, but in an entirely different way. For Meg at once felt an unlooked-for power. Sutcliffe had told her she promised. It was possible he might be worked upon.
“If I come to you,” she said slowly, and watched his gaze grow darkly penetrating. “If I come to you-would you not take that as proof-that I cared too much for him?”
“It would not last,” he said with supreme confidence. He stepped even closer to her. “I would soon have you forget him.”
“I think you might surprise yourself, my lord. And find that you no longer want what you would win.”
“I will always want you, Meg. Have I not impressed you with my constancy?”
She bit back a retort. Obsession was a peculiar constancy. But she must continue to `promise.’
“If I should come to you … ,” she said again, and the light eyes darkened even more. She feared she had gone too far-he looked as though he might grab her right there. He was a man maddened by his passions; it must have taken effort for him to discourse with her this long. “… what assurance would I have-that you would harm no one?”
“No one, again,” he remarked with a cynical lift of a brow. “You would have the assurance that I’d have obtained what I wanted. I would want nothing more.” He noticed her dubious gaze. “You will come to me, Meg,” he repeated firmly. “I shall make it easy for you. You must send word to me at Grosvernor Square. I will collect you immediately. Mind you”-again he placed a finger under her chin, but this time he raised her face for his inspection-“I shall not wait long. Mr. Cabot might press me.”
“My sister’s ball is tonight-as you no doubt know.”
Sutcliffe smiled.
“Little Lucy did not invite me”
“My sister is braver than I”
“It does not take bravery to deny me, Meg. It takes bravery to invite me in-as you, at last, dare to do”
She had the horrifying feeling he meant to kiss her, and stepped back abruptly. His look was sardonic.
“Yes, I think I shall have to teach you to love. And we must find you a new maid,” Meg glanced over at Annie, “since I believe this one does not share your aversion to murder.”
Annie was indeed glowering by the door.
“She is from the North, my lord. Not a comfortable county parish.”
“She will be returning there shortly,” he said with annoyance.
Meg silently applauded his displeasure.
“If you do not hear from me,” she said, moving toward Annie and escape, “‘twill be because I do not choose to join you”
He bowed to her, a courtesy that under the circumstances seemed a mockery. He had effectively just robbed her of any choice.
“If you do hear from me, Miss Meg, ‘twill be because Mr. Cabot chooses to join his maker.” And she knew his gaze was on her as she turned to leave.
Dressing for Lucy’s ball was such an extended, tortuous process, at least as overseen by a valet as fastidious as Dietz, his uncle’s man, that Chas was tempted to send last minute regrets. According to Dietz, a gentleman must wear so much in evidence of his standing and good taste that Chas was convinced he could evidence neither. He consented to the elaborately styled cravat, to the ostentatious buckles on his shoes, and to the impressively high, stiff shirt points. But he balked at having his hair powdered. He told Dietz in no uncertain terms, and in the only language Dietz understood, that he refused to appear looking like a character from Fasching carnival.
Dietz, who had to be nearing ninety, could manage offended pride and servile abasement simultaneously. Chas considered it an opportune moment to suggest that Dietz remove himself permanently to Brookslea, where he would have a large staff to terrorize, instead of one transient, obsti nate master. How that would work, Chas hadn’t a clue, since Dietz spoke neither English nor French. But Dietz took the proposed removal as a sign of promotion, and retreated to a pleased and dignified silence. As Chas finished with his finery he could only stare resignedly at his reflection in the mirror.
He thought tonight might be the last time he saw her.
Of all the eventualities for which he had prepared over the previous weeks, that was the one for which he had not prepared-for which he was perhaps incapable of preparing. The finality of the thought affected him as nothing else had.
Yet there was no other recourse. Had there been, Sir Eustace would have thought of it and acted before now. All remedies at law were closed to them. All society’s penalties for uncivil behavior had been exercised. And Chas knew he could not continue as he wished while Meg was effectively in Sutcliffe’s power. The earl was quite literally squeezing the life out of her.
The hour was close. Chas had been to Wimbledon just that morning, to walk the ground, to see if there were any possible advantage to be had.
Sutcliffe might challenge him at any moment now, but at least the challenge would not come tonight. There was little likelihood the earl would approach Lady Billings’s home, with hundreds of guests attending, and all the protection Sir Eustace and Bertram would have arranged.
Chas sighed as he touched his cravat. He wanted to concentrate on the task at hand, on meeting Sutcliffe, and not on the outcome. Even then, like some troubling refrain, all he could contemplate was his desire to see Meg, to hold Meg, to more than hold Meg.
“What a lovesick puppy you are,” he muttered to hims
elf, only to quickly dismiss Dietz’s inquiring “Bitte?” In his present state, Chas had to believe himself fortunate to have a man who did not speak English.
He had been asked to arrive at Lady Billings’s a bit early, just why he could not imagine. Perhaps Lucy had requested his presence so that she might regale him with some extensive description of a recent revel. Ordinarily, he would not have objected. But tonight … tonight would be difficult enough, having to be surrounded by so many, when so much was at stake.
Dietz, quietly observing Chas’s prolonged attention to his dress, probably assumed his master was courting. Well, so he was. Courting an invitation, courting disaster. As he headed out the door, Chas took some comfort in knowing he met with the elderly Austrian’s approval. However much one might resent them, the proprieties had been closely observed. Such attentions had never mattered much before, but now, with the lady involved …
Out of doors, the late May night was lovely, warm, still and clear. As the hired carriage deposited him at Meg’s aunt’s home, Chas took a moment to survey the street. The lamps were lit; a few people were out walking, but no vehicles waited. A man standing by the garden gate to the side touched his hat when Chas nodded.
The strong scent of lilacs graced the air.
Once in the hall, Chas scarcely recognized the place. All the wide doors between the front rooms had been opened to create an airy, broad gallery, from the garden, past the piano and orchestra at one end, through the hall and into a morning room and further dining room. The table had been removed to make space. He could hear servants clattering dishes in a supper room in back. Scores of lanterns flared, reflecting brightly in the many mirrored walls.
As the butler left to announce him to Sir Eustace, Chas glanced toward the piano. The evening’s small orchestra was just setting up. He wondered if there would be a waltz-and then wondered if he would dare. The memory of Meg at the piano rose to haunt him yet again.
To distract himself he moved to the display of flowers on a long console table. The offerings were extravagant, elegant and colorful. But one simpler arrangement of white roses and blue ribbons drew his inspection. He fingered the card, noticed the unmistakable name Wembly-and frowning, immediately released it.
“‘Tis an `H,”’ Sir Eustace said as he propelled his chair forward, “for Harry.”
Chas glanced at him, then scanned the rest of the flowers.
“Which are your favorites, Cabot?” Sir Eustace asked.
“I do not see them, sir.”
“There are, as you know, two young ladies residing at this establishment. Lucinda’s are here tonight, of course,” he gestured broadly to the table, “but I believe Margaret has taken all her flowers upstairs.”
Chas had to rally. His initial relief had been too quickly doused by the reference to “all” of Margaret’s flowers.
“It promises to be quite a crush this evening, Sir Eustace.” He tried a smile. “Miss Lucy has gathered a raft of admirers.”
“I must inform you, Cabot, that Lucinda has thrown you over several times in as many weeks”
“So I hear. I regret to say-I had expected it”
“You are not heartbroken?”
“Not on her account, sir.”
Sir Eustace’s smile was warm. He tapped the top of his cravat.
“I note your magnificent cravat is rather askew, Mr. Cabot,” he said, and indicated the mirror further along the wall. Cabot stepped over to it with a frustrated sigh. In his discomfort with Dietz’s noose he must have unthinkingly loosened the devilish thing on the carriage ride over. The damage was not severe, though, and he was able to right it and secure the repair by relocating his cravat pin. As he fixed his linen he could not help but notice the portrait reflected from the wall behind him-of Meg as a young girl, with her sisters and mother. He turned to consider it.
“For some years I had it out at Selbourne,” Sir Eustace told him as he too viewed the portrait. “Until I could no longer bear it. Perhaps,” he mused, “I am ready to have it back.”
“‘Tis a fine portrait, Sir Eustace. Of a fine-looking family.”
“My wife was a most handsome woman-and beautiful to me. Louisa is much like her. Lucinda is a very pretty, lively girl. But Margaret … Margaret is something more.” He gestured at the big-eyed child. “Even then I had to wonder where she had sprung from”
“Did you, sir?” Cabot looked from the portrait to Sir Eustace. “‘Tis no mystery. She is very like you”
“I am not near so comely,” he scoffed.
Chas smiled, but glanced thoughtfully again at the portrait.
“She is the same in her essence-in her confidence. In her strength in her family. In you, sir.”
Sir Eustace’s eyes glistened as he looked at him.
“She causes a good deal of trouble,” he said gruffly, as though he would mask his sentiment with irritation. Chas viewed the empty hall.
“I seem to have arrived excessively early. I misunderstood-and thought perhaps that Miss Lucy had some last minute directive or mission for me.”
“No, Cabot. I sent for you” As Chas glanced at Sir Eustace in surprise, he added, “I wished to have a few minutes alone with you. Unfortunately, one of Lady Billings’s ancients can no longer read time. Ferrell has detained him in the library for me, whilst we are demoted to the hall. I hope you do not mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Cabot,” he began, then hesitated. “Cabot-I am well aware that events now move-much too quickly-toward an inevitable conclusion. Though I know you intend only the best, I would counsel you not to do what you are set to do.”
The direct words temporarily robbed Chas of response.
“You-ask me not to do this?”
“Yes.
“But sir-Pardon me, Sir Eustace. I can do what you cannot”
“Unquestionably. But that is not reason enough to do it. I would never have asked so much of you.”
“I know that, sir. I ask it of myself. In similar circumstances I believe you would have done as much.”
Sir Eustace looked down as he slapped both arms of his chair.
“Perhaps,” he said. “We shall never know. I cannot ask it of Bertram, who has proposed it He has his strengths, but in such a confrontation …”
“He must be kept from this,” Chas stressed. “He has come too close on more than one occasion. He may yet present a problem.”
“I am sending him to Selbourne-with Margaret-on Saturday” Cabot nodded, but Sir Eustace said, “There is another difficulty,” adding pointedly, “Margaret. She will not let you”
“She will not know.”
“And after?”
A sharp, metallic crash echoed throughout the house. Someone had dropped an item in back. The sound and the resulting excited chatter drifting from the supper room broke some of the tension Chas had felt as they talked.
His course was plotted. He could not let Sir Eustace sway him.
“I do not permit myself to think of after,” he said frankly.
“She is like to believe it murder. I fear that is my own influence.”
“It is a good influence, sir. Do you think I intend to present myself to her-after-and say `Miss Lawrence, I have killed a man. Will you have me?”’ Despite his effort at composure, Chas knew the words sounded bitter. Sir Eustace simply watched him. “I would not ask her. Whatever choices she might be free to make after-that is unlikely to be one of them”
“My boy, I believe you do yourself a disservice.” The older man’s gaze briefly sought the scarcely distinguishable mourning band on Chas’s coat sleeve. “I understand you have interests on the Continent?” When Chas reluctantly nodded, he persisted, “You could not take her there?”
Chas dared not dwell on what the question tacitly assumed.
“I could, sir-if she would go. But such a removal would only delay the inevitable, as you term it. Sutcliffe also has interests on the Continent; I understand he comfortably located himself there until
just a year ago. I would have to anticipate pursuit, sooner or later. ‘Tis better to attempt to free her now, before … before she . . °’
“Cabot, I believe she already has. But she must tell you herself.”
Chas sighed, to ease the oppression in his chest.
“You mean to hold out your daughter as a prize, Sir Eustace. As though the hope of attainment might alter my path”
“I mean to give you reason to stay alive, my boy.”
“I cannot be alive, sir, if she is trapped”
As though on signal, the orchestra began to tune up. Bertram, still adjusting his cuffs, came running down the stairs with a loud “‘allo, Cabot!” and the butler flung wide the front doors to the evening air and the sound of carriages.
Again Chas caught the heady fragrance of blooming lilacs. Even as he shook Bertie’s hand, he realized he felt drained by the conversation with Sir Eustace. All that had been accomplished was some weakening of his will; it lightened his heart to know that Sir Eustace would consent to his taking Meg away. But he knew such an escape could never be safely executed, or last for long …
A commotion at the top of the stairs announced the presence of Louisa and Meg, aiding their aunt as she slowly made her way down the stairs. Chas could not take his gaze from Meg in a striking, low-cut gown of some fine white gauzy stuff. Indeed, as he watched her descend, he fought the urge to do precisely as her father proposed-and spirit her away across the Channel that night.
“Ladies,” Sir Eustace acknowledged. “Pru, may I present to you Mr. Charles Cabot. Cabot, my sister-in-law, Lady Billings.”
Chas made his best bow and purposely kept his gaze from Meg.
“I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Cabot”
“I am honored to meet you, Lady Billings. I had the good fortune to speak with your husband many years ago. At the Royal Society. He gave a lecture on early Etruscan architecture.”
Lady Billings’s features softened.
“It was a subject most dear to him. You have a good memory, sir.”
“‘Twas an affecting lecture, my lady.” Chas smiled. Old Lord Billings had in fact been a most learned gentleman, if a bit given to circumlocution.
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